Tales From the Seven Kingdoms (An Ode to Castamere)
by KingShakespeare
Summary: This is a collection of short stories that take place in the A Song of Ice and Fire world, canon and not, spread out through chaptered intervals. The first tale tells of Jon Snow becoming legitimate and king of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as developing an intimate relationship with Sansa Stark. *CHAPTER TEN WILL BE THE NEXT ADDITION TO THE JON STARK STORYLINE*
1. Jon Stark I

Jon Stark: Chapter One

By Caleb Wright

The first time she came to him it had been in the middle of the night, hair disheveled, tears streaming down her face.

Jon had no idea what to say to console her. The war had taken her entire family: her three true brothers, her sister Arya. Even her mother had fallen. Sansa was every bit as much as bastard as Jon was. Had been.

Jon Stark had been legitimatized the same day he led the wildlings and Night's Watch into King's Landing, into the Red Keep, and killed Cersei and Jaime where they stood in the throne room. His men had deposed of Tommen and Myrcella, too.

The Lannisters were all dead, save Tyrion, who was the one that had betrayed the crown. It was his word that had the gates of the capital opened to Jon and his men. It was his word that had put Jon Stark on the Iron Throne; it hadn't been Jon's intention or even his desire. He could be a good king, though. He would be. He felt it in his heart.

He still flashed back at times to that second when the throne room doors burst open and guards spilt out. They were severely outmatched, but they fought valiantly all the same. Jon had cut down three before he was in the actual room. That was when he saw it: Cersei with a knife to Sansa's neck. _His sister's neck. _

"Let her go, and your life will be your reward," he negotiated in his sultry tone, trying to sound pacifying.

"Come one step closer, and she dies" Cersei threatened. Jon knew the words weren't empty. So Jon didn't move. Ghost did. A lunge from behind took her off her feet, and a tear at the throat took her life.

Tommen was sitting on the Iron Throne, pudgy and crying. _He's just a boy, _Jon thought. _Only a boy. _But Ned's voice, his _uncle's _voice, rang throughout his head, and he knew what he must do. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. _Jon had past the sentence the moment he entered the Keep. Longclaw pierced the young king's heart like a knife pierces bread.

Sansa was on her knees, shaking. Jon bent down next to her, and he put his hands on her shoulders, "Sansa, it's me. It's Jon. Jon Snow." She looked up into his eyes with a mixture of terror and confusion, but he sensed relief in there, too.

A tear rolled down her rosy cheek, and she forced a weak smile, "They'll make you a Stark for this."

Tyrion waddled into the conversation, almost eye level with a bent down Jon, "No. They'll make you king."

A day later he was Jon Stark. A week later he was king.

That night, the night after his coronation, during the hour of the wolf, Sansa came to his chambers unbidden. Tracks of tears stained her pink cheeks, and she was still sobbing silently.

Jon rose, still groggy, and wrapped his arms around his half-sister.

"They're all gone," she whispered, muffled by the crook of his musty neck. "I'm alone. And it's all my fault. All my—"

"Shhh," King Jon stroked her auburn hair with his fire-scarred hand. "You're not alone. I'm here. I know I'm not your full-blood, but—"

This time she hushed him, "The Others take your blood. You're my only family. You came for me… That's more than I can say for anyone else."

"That's not fair," Jon chided. "Everyone did their best end this war and get you back home."

Sansa let out a sound that was half snarl, half sob, "Robb wouldn't even ransom Jaime for me! And he didn't even bother to kill him while he had him hostage. If Robb had killed Jaime, Arya would still be alive. And your friend he cut down in the battle. Sam. Sam Tarly, right?"

Jon nodded. _Sam. _It was like a needle to Jon's chest. Needle. _Arya. _The pain doubled. Arya had always been the one who understood him, accepted him regardless his blood. He wondered what she would have said if she was here, if she knew that he wasn't really her brother. He was her cousin.

Before the march south, Samwell had disclosed something he had discovered in the waste at Winterfell. A letter from Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, to Lyanna Stark. Suddenly everything clicked into place. The secrets, the discord, what Ned had wanted to tell him. His whole life had come into perspective. Jon _was_ a bastard, but not Ned Stark's bastard. His sister's bastard. Lyanna Stark was his mother. And Rhaegar Targaryen was his father.

He was half Targaryen. The Last Targaryen. Since Daenerys and Stannis destroyed each other on Dragonstone, along with the dragons, flesh and stone. Jon wasn't as sorry as he should be; something about dragons made him uneasy. It was probably the Stark in him.

In retrospect, when he thought about it, Robert's Rebellion had really been fought because of Jon's existence: the product of the love between Rhaegar and Lyanna. It was a cruel sort of poetic justice that he had to go to war himself to overthrow the heir that the Usurper left. Yet he did it.

Somehow, Sansa ended up asleep in the other end of King Jon Stark's bed, her back turned to him, still shuddering on occasion as a person often does after crying for such a long time.

When Jon wasn't careful, his foot would brush hers. When Jon wasn't careful, he would forget not to like it. It's was so dark in the windowless chambers, the king's chambers. _The night is dark and full of terrors. _It was so dark that when he looked over at his cousin, sleeping peacefully now, she could have been Ygritte there beneath the sheets. Though Ygritte's hair was never so straight, and she never smelled quite as sweet as fine lemoncakes.

Just for a second, Jon wondered if between her legs was as sweet as the rest of her. Then he cursed himself and thought _She is my sister. _

But then he remembered, _I am a king._

He closed his eyes.


	2. The Last Storm Lord I

The Last Storm Lord: Chapter One

By Caleb Wright

Storm's End. _What an ironic name, _he thought. _The place where that name died. _He was Gendry Baratheon now. When he and the Knights of the Hollow Hill had sided with Stannis Baratheon's army during the final large battle of the Great War, the Battle of Harrenhal, King Stannis had removed Gendry's bastard name and made him a real Baratheon, a real lord.

After Stannis sacked King's Landing, which was more of a mummer's farce than a battle, he had appointed Gendry as Lord of Storm's End and his half-brother Edric as Lord of Dragonstone. Stannis seemed gracious enough, but Gendry sensed it was more about keeping the Baratheon name alive, since Shireen was his only child, and he had no boys of his own. It hurt Stannis to look on Gendry; Gendry saw that. He supposed it was because he looked like his father, King Robert Baratheon the Usurper, the Conqueror.

When he sat in his castle's forge, honing his long sword with a whetstone, Gendry thought about his father often. He thought about his victories. He thought about his defeats. More often, though, he thought of _her. _

Gendry thought of the way she smiled at him beneath her sable hair, and the way she penetrated him with those grey eyes. The way he penetrated her for the first time in the stables after their long afternoon ride around the castle forests. When they returned to the keep, they were covered in sweat and grime and hay was trailing from their disheveled hair. She was all he had ever wanted, and he hadn't known it until that moment.

Not soon after, they were wed in the moonlight of the castle courtyard on a spring night. The winter had been mild after all. Even King Stannis and his new queen Melisandre were in attendance. The moment Gendry draped that yellow cloak with the crowned stag over Arya Stark's—Arya Baratheon's—shoulders he knew he would never be happier than that.

But he was wrong. It was what took place naught but an hour later, in the hour of the crow, that made Lord Gendry Baratheon's heart leap.

They'd forgone the traditional bedding ceremony. Gendry wasn't one for theatrics. After the feast, though, Gendry took his bride back to his chambers—their chambers—carrying her like a doll in his perfectly sculpted arms. The room smelled of fresh perfume and incense, and candles lined the walls, lighting the silk and satin bed in the middle of the room in a holy light.

"Do you remember when we met?" he asked.

She looked up into his hard, warm eyes, and smiled teasingly, "So we came in here to talk?"

Gendry threw her down on the bed, and she glared up at him, playful but stern. "Do you remember?" he repeated.

Her face softened, as she realized his sincerity, "Of course."

"I knew you weren't a boy," he mused. "You fooled everyone else somehow, but not me. Somehow, I've always known you. I've always known this."

He saw her face start to redden. In earlier days, she would have thrown something. Or hit him. Arya was getting better at expressing her feelings, though, and not shying away from them. She was a woman now. She would always be that she-wolf he met on the kingsroad, but she was so much more than that now.

The dress she wore demonstrated that to full affect. It accentuated so many features that she hadn't possessed when they had met. Her bosom was perky and full, her hips slender but prominent. Her hair wasn't a mess these days—usually, at least. It fell in graceful curls down her shoulders, and it helped define her cheekbones. And there was a scar above her left eye from where Jaime Lannister's Valyrian blade had almost sliced right through her skull. Even with one hand the man was deadly, once he learned to use his left. But Arya was deadlier still.

Gendry could still recall the image. Fire and smoke. Bodies and blood. Chaos and anarchy. Stannis's army had marched south for over a week. The Lannister's army had marched north almost as long. They met right outside of Harrenhal, blades clashing and arrows flying.

The battle was surreal. Gendry lost count of how many men he slew. At one point, he swore he saw someone running by in his bull's head helmet. He could never find the helm or the man after, though. What he did see was Arya Stark. They'd been separated for nearly three years, since Arya was taken by the Hound when they were still with the Brotherhood, but he could spot her anywhere.

She moved like water. Fluid and graceful. A shortsword in her left hand, a dagger in her right. Gendry ran for her, as soon as he saw her, nearly getting himself killed in the process. Arya, meanwhile, was slaying lions left and right. Gendry saw her stab a man in the heart and slit a man's throat simultaneously with her dual blades flashing through the air. "Gendry!" she called when he got in front of her. She turned so they were back to back, no side exposed to the chaos around them.

"Get out of here!" he screamed. "Battle's no place for a highborn lady."

"Battle's no place for a smith's apprentice," she sneered, slashing down a man who charged her by disemboweling him with her long blade. "Besides," she growled wiping the blade on a piece of cloth sticking out of her chainmail, "I'm no lady. I'm a wolf." As if to prove her point, she threw her dagger past Gendry, and it lodged in the back of a Lannister soldier running at an injured knight from Dragonstone. He fell instantly.

"Fine," Gendry growled. "But if you die, I'll kill you."

She just smiled and ran off.

It could have been minutes or hours later when Gendry caught sight of her again. Something held his stare, and at first he just thought he was being overly protective. That's when he saw the Kingslayer. The one-armed knight swung his sword so fast that Gendry was certain Arya was dead. She had to be. But she wasn't.

The girl had reacted even faster than Jaime Lannister had attacked. She'd stepped back enough so that the sword would only leave a grazing wound, where otherwise it would have cracked her skull, but stayed close enough that she could get the pointy end of her sword into Jaime's stomach.

Everything slowed down in that moment for Gendry. He heard Jaime grunt, saw Arya grit her teeth. Saw her yank up on the sword, and saw the insides of the Kingslayer spill out as Arya cut him wide open. Jaime Lannister fell, and that was the end of him. Arya looked up, and somehow her deep grey eyes found Gendry's at once. Blood trickled from the wound that would never fully heal, but she smiled all the same. It was the most intense moment of his life.

Until Arya saw him hardening in his trousers on their wedding night. She bit her lip softly and met his eyes once more, "Are you going to stick me with the pointy end?"

It was too much for Gendry. He threw off his boots, and climbed on top of Arya. He wrapped his fingers in her soft, sable hair that smelled like honey and breathed deeply in the nape of her neck. He let his lips run across her ear as he removed her dress, unlaced her corset. She was down to her smallclothes, then nothing at all, before he had so much as taken a breath.

She was already panting slightly from him working on her ear by the time he slid his lips down her chest and her navel until they rested right above where her thighs parted. He kissed her there lightly and felt her back arch. She smelled of lilac and apples. It was the most pleasurable scent he'd ever known. He flitted his tongue across her warm opening, and she shuddered, moaning audibly.

"Gendry," she whispered, her nails digging into his arm, breaking the skin, but he didn't care. He placed two fingers where his mouth had been and rubbed her gingerly while moving back up to eye level with her. Her eyes had a silent pleading in them that Gendry had never seen before, and he knew what she wanted. This was the only time Gendry had felt as if Arya didn't want to be in control of a situation. He reveled in it.

He removed his vest and tunic, and began unlacing his trousers when Arya's hands intervened. Deftly, she managed to get them off faster than Gendry could. He felt himself throb in his smallclothes, yearning for the warmth her love could provide. _The sweet warmth, _he thought to himself.

Once Gendry was naked, Arya pushed him up off of her, and she got to her knees. She reached up and touched his stomach, tracing the definition of his core, the tightness of his stomach. She traced down, down, down, until her hand rested on his growing cock. "Mm," she moaned. "You run me through with this tonight, and it might well come out the other side!"

Gendry laughed, "I don't care where it comes out so long as it _cums._"

She smiled at his wit, "Well, aren't you clever?" Then, her mouth was on him, her head bobbing back and forth. Sensation overwhelmed any anxiety Gendry felt about his wedding night. Sensation overwhelmed everything until there was only passion. It felt like heaven, her mouth the golden gate, her lips running back and forth along his length.

Minutes later, Gendry came in her mouth. Arya tried to move her head back, but Gendry held her by the hair, finishing every drop in her apple-flavored mouth. She swallowed and licked her lips, and Gendry was even more stiff at the sight of that.

Arya stood, brushing off her bare knees, and laid down on the bed again. She spread her legs slightly and placed her hand right where Gendry's mouth had been earlier. She moved her fingers in a slow, rhythmic motion, back and forth against her clit. Gendry sat at the edge of the bed, trying not to touch himself.

She saw his struggle, and giggled, a slight moan in her quavering voice, "Come on, Gendry. Are you going to run me through or not?"

He shook his head, smiling, "Not if you call it that."

Arya rolled her eyes and stopped moving her hand, "I can call it what I want."

_There's the she-wolf, _Gendry mused. "You can call it that if you want to have to run yourself through."

That made her frown. Gendry leaned over and kissed her lips, crawling on top of her, stiff as a board and ready to feel her warmth envelope him. "Fine," she growled, only halfway playful. "Gendry, are you going to _fuck _me or not?"

Hearing her say it made him laugh so hard he collapsed on top of her. "That's more like it!" he joked, still laughing.

Arya roared again, but grabbed his cock, which shut Gendry up immediately, provoking a groan from his throat. She stroked him a few times, then pulled him into her, pushed herself further onto his shaft. She moaned quietly, her breath ragged.

Holding himself up by his arms and looking down into those grey she-wolf eyes, Gendry began to thrust. And nothing had ever felt more right.

Until the next night.


	3. The Flower of Highgarden I

The Flower of Highgarden: Chapter One

There was nothing quite like growing up in the Reach. Green gardens, rolling hills, it was all but the fertile crescent of the Seven Kingdoms. It was the heart of chivalry and what it meant to be a knight or maiden in the world. And if the Reach was the heart, then Highgarden was the lifeblood itself.

From an early age, Loras Tyrell knew that he wanted to be a knight. There was no sweeter life in the whole world. And Loras would be the best of them all. At the age of seven, he took up his first sword in the practice yard at the urging of his lord father, Mace Tyrell. His sister Margaery, not even a full year younger than himself, would follow him out to the yard and watch him work at it every day.

This lasted for six years, until Mace Tyrell announced that in a years time, on Loras's fourteenth birthday, he would be shipped off to Storm's End to squire for King Robert's younger brother Renly Baratheon.

Then things started to change. Margaery started to change. She got emotional. She'd break down and throw fits more often. She was thirteen, practically a woman grown, and still, Mace Tyrell had to confine her to the castle because of how she would behave in public. Especially if Loras was around.

It was midafternoon, and Loras was in the bath, just finished with his daily sparring, sore from a hit he'd taken from Horas Redwyne in the ribs. A tender bruise was already forming. Loras poked at the raised flesh and winced.

"Does it hurt?"

Loras jumped so high when he came back down nearly half of the water splashed out of the washtub. He whipped around to see Margaery standing in his chambers, "What in the seven hells are you doing in here? And why are you talking to me all of a sudden?"

She walked over to him at a brisk pace, and for the first time he noticed she wasn't wearing anything except a thin nightgown. Her nipples were practically poking through the white silk. "Margaery!" he snapped, whispering, afraid of anyone walking in here. Afraid of what kind of trouble they would be in.

Margaery smiled softly, eyes peering down into the water, "What, brother? Since when do you bathe with your sword?"

"What?" he looked down into the water, surprised to see how hard he was. His shaft was sticking up so straight it was practically sticking out of the water. _Gross_, he thought. _She's my sister. My sister. _"Margaery, you shouldn't be in here."

She looked at the length of his cock, his eyes, and his cock once more before smiling knowingly and walking from the room.

Loras finished his bath in haste and retired to his bed for the rest of the day.

When night came, he couldn't sleep. Not a wink. He couldn't even close his eyes. Every time he tried, he saw Margaery's sweet nipples and lusty eyes. She had done a bad thing.

It was the hour of the night when nothing good occurred that his chamber door opened. He didn't even need to look to the door. Somehow, he knew.

He heard the sound of something dropping to the floor, and then, she was crawling into bed next to him. She was naked. He felt her bare skin brush up against his naked back, and it sent tingles down his spine and in the base of his brain. Loras's toes curled. Her warm breath tickled his neck.

"Margaery…" he whispered, warily.

She climbed on top of him, straddling him, holding him by his golden hair, "Shh," she whispered, putting her face close to his, lips only inches apart. "We've been together since I was born, Loras. We _belong _together. And now father is shipping you off like wine from the Arbor."

He pushed her off of him, not wanting her to notice him getting hard again in his smallclothes, "Father's shipping me off, and it makes you sad, so you spent eleven months of my last year here avoiding me?"

"Shut up, Loras," she whispered, grabbing the crotch of his breeches and thrusting her lips against his. Loras had never been kissed before. And he didn't like it. Her lips were pressed so firmly against his, he felt them bruising under her touch, her tongue seeking some sort of release in his mouth. His cock continued to grow in his pants, and it wanted something that he by no means desired. Her hand was in his breeches, it working up and down on his cock. He shuddered and almost closed his eyes.

"No!" he whispered. "No!" Margaery rolled her eyes and lowered her head towards his cock. Loras grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head away from his shaft, which was still bulging. "You're my sister!"

She looked at him, clarity and fire mingling in her brown eyes, "And you're my brother. Why should that impede you from being my lover?"

"No, Margaery. Not tonight. Not any night. You're my sister, and I would be a knight someday. That would violate their sacred code; incest is abominable in the eyes of the Seven."

"You're such a priss, Loras. A prude," she growled. "You know, there are rumors you don't have an eye for women at all."

"Get out," Loras said, flatly, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Margaery's eyes cooled, and suddenly she became very apologetic, "Loras? No. I didn't mean… I didn't realize the rumors were… They're not, are they? Talk to me. I _am _your sister. I'm here for you."

Loras glared at his sister, "You were not. You haven't been. And I don't need you here now. Go."

"Loras…"

"_Go!_" he snapped. She stood up and dressed silently. She looked back at him one last time, "I _am _sorry, Loras," and she left.

They didn't speak of that night again. Loras didn't address his sister until the day he left for Storm's End, and even then, he pretended like that night had never happened. They sent ravens back and forth on occasion, wishing each other well in their endeavors. For Loras to become a knight. For Margaery to become a powerful lady. They both succeeded.

When they were around each other again, things weren't as tense as they had been. Margaery had grown up some; she was very protective of her brother, though. Something that night had changed the dynamics of their relationship forever. She just wanted him to be happy, to find love, and eventually he did. With the man he'd gone to squire for, the Lord Renly Baratheon.

The stag and the flower. The stormlord and the knight.


	4. The Dragon and the Stag

The Dragon and the Stag (Stand Alone Short Story)

The Iron Throne was cold, much colder than she had expected. She knew it was made out of pure steel, the swords of a thousand men, but for some reason Daenerys Targaryen had always expected it to feel like a dream. Like sitting on a cloud. Like straddling her silver. Or her Drogo. It was nothing of the sort, however.

To be honest, it was uncomfortable, but no one would ever hear her say that. It was her throne, and she loved it. More than her father had loved it. The jagged edges of the throne had cut Aerys Targaryen on more than one occasion. She loved it more than her brother would have loved it. She could imagine Viserys complaining about his back after a few minutes on the throne. He would have been a terrible king, but she missed him all the same.

Especially on these days—when she sat on the throne for hours on end, listening to the complaints of her people. They were petty complaints mostly; King's Landing was a changed place ever since she'd taken hold of it. A better place. So much so that the commoners had taken to calling the capitol Queen's Landing. Dany didn't mind, not at all. The only thing that troubled the new queen was how alone she often felt. With Jon and Viserion in Winterfell and Tyrion and Rhaegal in Casterly Rock, Daenerys had lost her two closest friends and two of her dragons to other ends of the Seven Kingdoms. It was necessary, she knew. She couldn't maintain a balance in every part of her kingdom if all of her strength was in Queen's Landing. But still…

Even Jorah Mormont—her bear, her rock, her oldest friend—no longer pursued her as he once had. After he had donned his white cloak and taken his sacred vows as a member of her Queensguard, he had backed off considerably. There were days when she still caught the way he looked at her, glances that spoke more than any words ever could, but he never voiced his feelings as he once had. Daenerys was a queen in full now, and something about that had tamed her bear. She didn't know whether she was grateful or not. There was a time she'd been put off by his advances, but now…

There was a craving inside of her, and it was growing. She knew not for whom or for what, but it was there. She thought of her brother—Rhaegar, not Viserys. She thought of Khal Drogo, her sun and stars. She thought of Jorah. She thought of Jon Targaryen, Rhaegar's bastard by Lyanna Stark, legitimatized after he became the second head of the dragon. There was something there with Jon, when she looked into his eyes. She felt it. She knew that they were meant to be together in a way. Someday perhaps.

As of now, though, the capital was a lonely place for the queen. There were always places to go and people to see, but there was no one who could _satisfy _Dany the way that she wanted. The way that she needed. Yes, it was true she loved to ride Drogo high above the city and out over Blackwater Bay, but there was a hole in her that even a dragon could not fill.

She wasn't sure it was sex, so much as intimacy with a person, but Daenerys didn't know how else to _be _intimate other than physically. She was a queen; emotionally, what was appropriate? She was a queen! Shouldn't it be whatever she deemed appropriate was appropriate? There was just so much about politics and running a physical kingdom that Daenerys had not been prepared for when she'd flown into the city, taking its allegiance and its throne, burning the Lannisters present to a crisp. All of them.

Except one. Daenerys called the girl to her chambers, monotonously, "Myrcella!" The Baratheon girl—who was no real Baratheon at all—shuffled into the room, eyes down on the floor.

"Yes, Your Grace?" she asked softly. Dany had a soft spot for the girl. She was an abomination, yes, born of treachery and incest between the Kingslayer and the Usurper's Wife. But the girl had never asked for it, any of it, and she'd never done the Targaryen family harm. So, Daenerys had spared her life, as soon as the girl denounced her claim to royalty and swore fealty to the one true queen. Dany had kept the girl as her personal handmaiden. She liked Myrcella to an extent. She was a somber girl—as one was like to be when she watched her parents burn. In an ironic way, Myrcella was everything Dany had been when she was younger. The last of her line. An outcast. Hated by so many. Devastatingly beautiful… Queen Daenerys was good to the girl, though.

"Get me ready for bed. It's been a long day."

"Yes, Your Grace," Myrcella dipped in a stiff curtsy. She has gentle hands, Dany noted. She was well-manicured, well-groomed. A pretty face. Her hair had more color to it that the queen's did; it was more blonde, less white. Daenerys envied the color almost. It complimented the girl's complexion in a way Dany's white hair couldn't. Daenerys felt warmth between her legs, and she was startled to notice how wet she was getting in the presence of this girl only a few years her lesser. Dany had only been with a girl once before, on a ship in the middle of the night, and that had been a long time ago… Irri, Dany recalled. The warmth spread to her stomach. It fluttered.

"Stop," the Queen ordered, as she stood in her smallclothes.

Myrcella cringed, "My apologies, Your Grace. Is something wrong?" Her eyes darted up for a second, the brown holding Dany's momentarily. Goose flesh raised on the queen's bare arms.

"No," Daenerys whispered, frankly. "Sit down on the bed."

Myrcella Baratheon sat, but looked uneasy, "Yes, Your Grace… Why?"

Daenerys sat beside her, still in her smallclothes, her breasts rising and falling with her breathing, "Because your queen demands it. Answer me this, Myrcella: have you ever been with a man before?"

Her eyes met the floor again, and Dany saw her lip quiver. The wet between her legs seemed to be seeping into her smallclothes. Myrcella frowned slightly, "No, Your Grace."

"Call me Daenerys."

Her eyes came up again, "No, Daenerys. I've never been with a man."

"A woman?"

"No, Your Gr—Daenerys."

Daenerys smiled slightly, amused by the girl's innocence, the quiet naivety that resonated from her supple skin, "Would you like to?"

Myrcella's whole body was trembling, "I'm not sure, Your Grace."

Dany put an arm around the girl, "Child, you're cold. You're trembling. Here," she pulled back the thick comforter on her large bed. "Warm yourself."

Myrcella shook her head, "It's not that; I'm not cold, Your Grace."

Dany lifted Myrcella's chin, making the girl's eyes meet her own, "Call me Daenerys. Warm yourself. Your queen commands it."

"Yes, Daenerys." Myrcella climbed under the covers quickly, but slow enough that Dany almost got a full glimpse up Myrcella's maiden dress. Dany imagined what it would be like to feel her hands slide in between Myrcella's thighs instead of her own. She shuddered pleasurably at the thought. Myrcella noticed, "Are you cold, Your Grace? Do you want me to finish dressing you? Or shall I light a brazier? You must be tired. I—"

"Call me Daenerys," she interrupted. "And I am the _queen. _I must be nothing other than what I please. Who are you to tell me that I'm tired?"

The girl's chin practically touched her small breasts as her head dropped so sharply from shame, "My apologies, Daenerys. It is not my place. I only meant—"

"Actually," Daenerys interrupted again. "I am quite cool. Make room."

"Your Grace?" Myrcella didn't seem to understand.

"Make room." Dany crawled under the comforter beside the shaking blonde girl. The girl had moved over so far she was practically falling off of the large bed. "Come," Dany beckoned, raising an arm so the girl could nuzzle beside her. Wordlessly, Myrcella sidled over, Dany's arm dropping around Myrcella's waist, forcing her head onto Daenerys's shoulder. Dany felt the warmth of the girl's bare leg against her own, and it was a struggle not to massage between her own thighs right then and there. "You're frightened of me, child," Daenerys said; it was not a question.

Myrcella tilted her head and brought her brown eyes up to meet the queen's violet ones, "No, Your Grace."

"Daenerys," the Queen corrected. "Don't make me tell you again, or I shan't correct you as nicely." Slowly, Dany placed a hand at Myrcella's shin where the hem of the dress had hiked up, and began tracing up the girl's trembling knee. Her leg was smooth as silk. Dany became suddenly wetter. She wanted to moan, but was too concerned with putting the girl off. She stopped her hungry fingertips at the girl's mid-thigh, looking down at the girl's face in careful scrutiny.

A flicker of something burned in Myrcella's brown eyes as Dany's hand stopped. In the dim light of the room, Daenerys imagined the girl had bitten her lip. She closed the last few inches, and heard a sweet moan. Honestly, she wasn't sure if it had Myrcella's or her own. She shut her eyes and savored it, her hand now working in earnest.

Throughout the rest of the night, Myrcella did not say "Your Grace" once. She did, however, moan Daenerys's name on several occasions.

"_Daenerys_."


	5. Jon Stark II

Jon Stark: Chapter Two

"No!" Jon growled. He wouldn't hear of it. Not now, not ever. He had no desire to marry. Love was nothing but cruel. What had happened to his parents was proof of that if anything. Rhaegar had been killed for love, and Lyanna had died giving birth to the product of that love. Himself. Jon. Jon Stark. He wondered what would happen if the Kingdoms knew he was really a Targaryen. He stopped himself right there. That kind of thinking could only lead to trouble. Then, he thought of Ygritte. His first love. Look at what had happened to her. He could still see the homely girl, kissed by fire, laying outside Castle Black, dead to the world in the midst of the snow. Red snow.

"No," Jon repeated. "I'll not marry. I'll hear no more talk of it."

"You must!" Tyrion insisted. "While you have no heir, your life will always be in peril. There are people who would wish to claim the throne from you, and it's a much easier task when they don't have to worry about a line of succession. Now you have no wife and trueborn children, and unless I'm mistaken, you've sired no bastards you could possibly legitimatize?" The Hand paused waiting for his king to answer.

"No. I've fathered no children, baseborn or true." Jon's gaze dropped. There was a simpler time when he would never have had to think on this; as a member of the Night's Watch he'd been sworn against the very thing that Tyrion Lannister was insisting upon. He was right, though; Tyrion was well-versed in matters of state. That was why Jon had chosen him as Hand of the King. After a lengthy pause, Jon frowned, "I see the necessity. I do _not_ like the prospect, however."

Tyrion turned towards the window, and asked the question Jon had feared, "What about Margaery Tyrell?"

Jon winced, "I'd rather not think on it. Not yet seen twenty name-days, and yet she's been widowed three times. I think I'd have more reason to fear for my life with her in my bed than if it remained cold."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes twinkled with a peculiar light, "Your Grace, rumor around the keep is that your bed seldom remains cold…"

Jon's stomach dropped and he tasted bile, "What are you getting at, dwarf?"

Tyrion raised his hands in a defensive manner, "I am not one to judge, Your Grace. I had two siblings once, who participated in that which the gods—old and new—deemed reprehensible, as well. If you wish to bed family, it is no one's business save your own, but a marriage agreement with another house, a strong house is still a necessity if you wish to rule much longer."

_Sansa, _Jon thought. He felt his temper rising, "I'm not bedding my family. My sister is in mourning. She's always in mourning. She comes to me for comfort. That's all."

Tyrion's crooked smile was devilish, "Call it what you will. If you wish to rule much longer—"

"I never wished to rule at all!" Jon snapped. "I didn't ask for this. Any of it! I accepted it because I knew I could make a good king. A just king! I am the Bastard of Winterfell, the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the One True King of the Seven Kingdoms! I am a man of honor, of duty—"

"Then do your duty," Tyrion interjected, and he turned to waddle from the room.

"Tyrion," Jon called after him. The Imp turned around, and he looked up at Jon with entreating eyes, the chain of his office glinting around his neck. "Thank you."

Tyrion smiled softly and bowed stiffly, "Your Grace." He swept from the room as quickly as his stunted legs would take him. Jon dressed quickly, and he walked out of his chambers, pausing to examine the two guards in full-white outside of his room.

"Your Grace," they chanted in unison, thick smiles on their happy faces.

Jon's brow furrowed, "Pyp, Grenn." Their smiles vanished as they noticed his solemnity. "When I take company," he continued, "regardless the time or who it may be, you keep it to your-bloody-selves, do you understand? Or I'll give the Others your tongues like Aerys did with Ser Ilyn Payne."

Their four eyes dropped to the tile in quiet shame, "Yes, Your Grace."

Jon dug a few golden dragons out of his pocket, "Here. Frequent a brothel. You won't be needed for the next few hours."

Their faces lit back up again, "Yes, Your Grace!" They took off without so much as an inquiry or parting glance. Jon was grateful for that. He didn't cherish what he had to do next.

He rapped on Sansa's chamber door twice and waited with his hands clasped behind his back. The crown made his head heavy, the white-gold snowflake and direwolf embellishing weighing heartily upon his brow. His neck felt stiff.

Sansa opened the door, suddenly, a slight smile playing across her face at the sight of him. His heart skipped; she was rarely this happy these days. It reminded him of their days at Winterfell before he'd ever left for the Night's Watch, before Ned had died. The smell of lemoncakes wafted from the room, and Jon felt his mouth watering. The smell followed Sansa everywhere. It messed with Jon's senses. He could no longer eat lemoncakes without picturing Sansa's arms around him, her head buried in his neck, like that first night she'd come to him. He got hard at the thought. Then, he felt shame. _I am a king, _he mused. _Kings need not have shame for their thoughts. Or actions. _

"Come in, Your Grace," she waved him in. Jon stepped in, somewhat hesitantly, and his stomach knotted when she shut the door behind him. This was very wrong.

"Sansa… " he started, suddenly overwhelmed by the tightness in his breeches. He couldn't recall what he was going to say.

She walked around him, until she stood directly in his line-of-sight, her eyes still shining, her face not an arms length from his. How easy it would have been to close that length, for his lips to brush hers softly. He imagined they tasted like lemoncakes, only sweeter, warmer, forbidden. "What is it, Your Grace?" she giggled, as she always did when she called him by his title. She would never get used to saying it, he knew. Jon wasn't sure he would ever grow used to hearing it, quite honestly.

"I must speak with you," he said. His mouth felt numb, and his tongue didn't want to cooperate.

Sansa's eyes searched his face, and for a second, he feared she would laugh again, "You _are _speaking with me. Is something wrong?"

"No," Jon stated, flatly. "Yes. Well, not really. It's just that… there's a rumor going around, Sansa. In regards to your visits to me."

"That you're bedding me?" Apparently she'd heard. "It's absurd, and I've chastised two maids I overheard already. I wouldn't fret about it, Your Grace. Ever since the truth of Cersei and Jaime came to light, incest is not as frowned upon as it used to be. No one will question you. Besides, you haven't _bedded _me yet. We've merely shared a bed on occasion." He imagined she was edging forward, her face getting closer to his, slowly. His eyes rested on her soft, pink lips, perhaps too long. His eyes shot back up to hers. That was no better; they looked hungry, he thought.

Jon backed up a step, afraid the feeling in his breeches would overpower him in such a close proximity. "It's not about being questioned. I am the king; I am not subject to being questioned. It's about propriety. It's about precedence."

Sansa definitely edged closer now, her hand reached out to take his, the one that was scarred during the fight with the wight so long ago. Her thumb traced a pattern on the underside of his palm, and he felt his cock twitch once against his pants. He hoped she hadn't noticed. "Are you not the king?" she asked, her eyes switching from their entwined hands to his deep brown eyes, which he imagined were betraying him all of a sudden. "Do you not decide what is proper? Do you not set the precedence?" Her head tilted, and her lips were becoming increasingly close to his, which he believed were beginning to tingle.

"Sansa, we can't—this isn't—"

Her lips met his slowly, softly, and they brushed against his with such a fluidity and smoothness that he was certain this was what he wanted. He'd never been kissed like this. Not by Ygritte. Not by anyone. His cock throbbed, and he wanted her to grab it. But she didn't. She let her hands intertwine in his hair, knocking his crown slightly askew. He put his hands gingerly on her hips, wanting more than anything in that second to move to her bed. Or her floor. At the moment, it wouldn't have made a difference, so long as he could close his fleshy sword in her warm sheathe.

Her tongue found his, and the taste was as Jon had imagined: lemoncakes. The sweetest kiss he'd ever received. He felt precum begin to dribble from the tip of his ever-aching cock, and he wondered what it would be like to feel her lemon-flavored lips enclose around his length. Her tongue to flit back and forth along the edge. A moan escaped his throat while their lips were pressed against each other with such care, and Sansa pulled away from him as cautiously as she'd approached.

"As you wish, Your Grace," she said, coyly, almost turning her back on the king. "If you say we can't… If you say this isn't… Then, it won't be. You _are _the king," she declared. She retreated a few more feet away from him.

Jon growled internally, angry with himself for letting it carry so far, angry with himself because of what he would say next. "Come to my chambers tonight. There will be no Kingsguard on duty and no one to see or hear what goes on within." He only hoped he could wait that long.

Her soft eyes met his and she grinned, her cherry lips parting slightly, "Yes, Your Grace."

Jon turned away, needing to get the image of her leaning towards him out of his mind. _I am the king, _he thought firmly.

He shut his eyes tight.


	6. The Flower of Highgarden II

The Flower of Highgarden: Chapter Two

Petyr Baelish had his fingers knit under his stubbled chin ponderously. "Well you won't declare for Stannis, of course." Loras glared, and Margaery rubbed his back consolingly. The Knight of Flowers's eyes were red. "And you've no love for the Young Wolf?"

Loras opened his mouth half a second, but bit back a reply. It was Margaery who addressed the Master of Coin, "No. We neither love him nor detest him. We know naught of him. I would have less reservations than the rest of my family, but I know that neither my brother nor my father would swear their swords to a King in the North. It would be a… conflict of interest."

Littlefinger smiled his most cunning smile, "The end of Highgarden, you mean. Yes. I can see where that would be problematic. Well then, Ser, Your Grace, it would appear that you only have one king left to turn to."

"_Joffrey_" Loras spit out. "The boy is cruel. You forget, unlike my sister, I've spent ample time in King's Landing. I know his demeanor. I know what he's like. I could never serve a boy like him."

Once again, Petyr smiled, "What about Lord Tywin? Let's not forget; Lord Tywin Lannister is Hand of the King now, and when he returns to King's Landing, which shall be sooner rather than later, he will manage to heel both the boy-king Joffrey and his mother, the Queen Regent."

Margaery looked down at her brother, whose eyes flitted up with a glimmer for the length of a second, "I _have _had the pleasure to meet Lord Tywin's acquaintance. He is a fair man—stern, but fair."

"Not to mention that he has the deepest pockets in Westeros," Baelish smiled.

Loras's hand went to the hilt of his sword, "Lord Tywin is a man I could follow. But I will not be kept from my vengeance. I will not pledge my sword to any king until Stannis Baratheon is dead. And if someone beats to me to it, it will be to him I pledge my sword."

Petyr Baelish's knowing eyes lit up suddenly, "What if I told you Stannis Baratheon could be within your reach within a fortnight?"

Margaery bit her lip, "You will not send my brother on a suicide mission, Lord Baelish."

"Battle, in itself," Petyr sipped from his chalice, "seems to often be a form of self-sought death. Does that make it suicide?"

Loras frowned, "We don't have enough troops to even fathom a battle against Stannis's army! He outnumbers us five to one after Renly's death. We don't have the numbers."

Petyr Baelish set down his chalice and smiled once more, "Lord Tywin, however, does."

"Tywin's in the north, near the Riverlands," Margaery supplied.

Petyr shook his head, "_Was."_

Loras pulled at his curly hair, perturbed, "Stannis is a godless man, but he is not daft when it comes to war. Lord Tywin couldn't possibly be so arrogant as to march against Stannis's might after being bled so profusely in the north and the west by that Robb Stark."

Petyr dipped his head, acknowledging Loras's sense, "It is true that Tywin's host has suffered…significant losses. But his host still remains the largest in Westeros and combined with the Tyrell foot and heavy horse, Lord Stannis would be forced to retreat indefinitely."

"So the plan _is _to march on Stannis?"

After emptying his chalice, a soft chuckle emanated from Petyr's jovial mouth, "Here's the sweetest part, Ser Loras, we won't have to march a foot."

Loras squinted, confused. The crying had addled his brains, "How come?"

Petyr cocked his head, his eyes meeting Margaery Tyrell's dark, hungry spheres behind her broken brother, "Stannis is sailing up the Blackwater. He means to take King's Landing. He knows naught in regards to Tywin's returning to the capital, nor of my arrangement with you, Ser… which if it succeeds, will put you in a higher standing than you ever deemed possible."

"I don't care about standings or court positions, politics or power. I care about _vengeance," _Loras growled. "And I mean to have it."

"Yes," Petyr whispered. "I see that. And as a man of good sense and a knight of honor, you clearly see your only route to vengeance is with me."

Petyr Baelish thought he saw Margaery grit her teeth, but whether at him or at Loras, Littlefinger had no notion. The abrupt silence was deafening. Petyr could hear the clangor of Tyrell soldiers hundreds of yards off. Suddenly, Loras looked up, straight into Petyr's eyes, and he saw the resolve take form there. The Knight of Flowers was suddenly not a flower, but a stone, "Yes," Loras declared. "To Kings Landing."


	7. The Last Storm Lord II

The Last Storm Lord: Chapter Two

Gendry parried the blow, grunting. His sword closed with the steel flashing towards his midsection, left, left, right. It took all of his concentration to keep the blade at bay. They weren't strong strikes, but they were swift. So swift Gendry feared he was actually going to lose this tilt.

Arya's face was furrowed in its own intense concentration as her sparring blade flashed at Gendry. He could tell she was enjoying it, though. Arya might have been a highborn lady her entire life, but she'd never acted like, and if Gendry thought that their marriage would remedy it, then he was sorely mistaken. Gendry was stronger, much stronger than Arya would ever be, but she had the speed. And she knew it.

She never touched him, but she had gotten close a few times. Whenever she got close enough, she would growl like a feral wolf and a slight frown would form on her pursed lips. She was agitated she couldn't land a blow. Gendry hadn't landed one, either. He had hardly been able to attempt to with Arya's unrelenting onslaught. He was patient, though; he knew she would tire long before him, especially at the rate she was attacking him.

To be honest, Gendry was surprised the dulled sparring blades hadn't broken yet with how fierce Arya was going. She truly didn't understand the concept of subtle. Gendry didn't mind so much; he knew he would never improve practicing with someone at half-speed. He was just a little disconcerted that there was a possibility that he could lose to a lady. Even his lady.

She feinted a blow towards his left ear and brought it down swiping deftly at his thigh. He jumped back, barely acknowledging the switch, instinct taking control over actual form. Gendry parried the blow, grunting. Arya growled again, pacing sideways, her blade always held in front of her in the form she'd learned so long ago from that Braavosi water dancer. When she wiped her brow haphazardly, Gendry smiled. She was wearing down, he knew.

Gendry flourished his blade through the air, taunting her slightly, "I'm not used to you breathing heavy with all your clothes on."

Quick as a snake, she threw her right foot forward and followed through with a thrust of her sword. Smiling, Gendry spun his own blade in a semicircle, knocking her blade to the side. She nearly dropped it. Another growl from the she-wolf. This time she had a go at him, "You were breathing heavy enough for the both of us last night, _my lord_."

Gendry chuckled, "I suppose I was… And I thought wolves only howled for the moon, but I suppose they howl for me, as well, she-wolf."

Her eyes blazed, and Gendry knew he had baited her. He planted his feet and prepared his hands to direct his blade. The attack came slow, slower than Gendry was expecting, and for some reason that made defending the blows more difficult.

She swung at his ribs. Gendry parried the blow, grunting. She swung at his head. Gendry parried the blow, grunting. She swung at the wrist of his sword hand. Gendry parried the blow, grunting, stepping two steps to the left. Arya had overextended swinging for his wrist and left half of her body open as her sword swung down after the parry, her balance lost. Gendry knew he didn't have time to land a blow before she'd roll out of reach, so he used his own momentum to propel his body into hers, sending them both to the dirt, swords out of reach.

"Ow!" Arya screamed, sprawling for her sword. Gendry didn't give her the opportunity; he threw himself on top of her, pinning her wrists with his hands, her legs with his torso. They were eye to eye, chest to chest, heart to heart.

"Yield," Gendry whispered, his own breath coming heavily now.

Arya raised her head, touching her forehead to his, glaring into his eyes, "I've never yielded in my—"

Gendry pressed his lips against hers, cutting her off. His hands moved to her hair, tangling in the brown. She wrapped her legs around his body giving into the moment.

Gendry accepted the kiss, grunting.


	8. Lions and Sapphires I

Lions and Sapphires: Chapter One

Her hair had grown to such a length that she could pass for a proper lady. Not an attractive one, but a lady nonetheless. Not that she wanted to be one. He supposed if she ever changed her mind it'd be obvious once she was free of the gauntlets and greaves. Her size was formidable on its own. In mail, it was beyond daunting.

If she'd been born a man, not even Gregor Clegane could have stood before her, Jaime thought. He rescinded the thought immediately. Clegane was dead. And even if he was alive, Brienne might have been a match for him. Jaime had sparred with Clegane before, years ago. Had seen him fight in tourney melees. The Mountain wasn't fast, but a man of the stature doesn't need to be. To get close enough to strike anything vital on the knight one would have to come within arms reach, and his grubby hands were fast enough to wring a person's neck. No, he wasn't fast, but he wasn't damn near as slow as his wits. That was what had ended Gregor's life truly: a lack of wits. He was no strategist. Just a fighter, an animal.

Oberyn Martell, the Seven bless his soul, had been an animal, too. The Red Viper, the Dornish and near everyone else called him. But a viper is a snake, and a snake is a cunning animal. _Not cunning enough, _Jaime thought. Oberyn had dealt enough poisoned blows to finish the Mountain, but not before Gregor smashed Oberyn's face in. _Shame. _

"Where are you?" Jaime jumped; he hadn't heard her enter the room, and her voice startled him.

He forced a small smile, "What do you mean, wench? I'm here."

She frowned and tapped her forehead, "I mean where are _you."_

"Ah," his lips pursed. "I'm afraid I drifted back to King's Landing momentarily."

Her voice was no more than a whisper when it came out, but it was stern all the same, "You can't go back. _We_ can't go back."

Jaime had opened his mouth to reply sharply, but the way she said _we_ caught his breath.

"Are you alright?" Brienne demanded, looking as distraught as ever.

Jaime waved her off nonchalantly, "I'm fine, wench. Just praying."

"Brienne," she corrected.

"Brienne."

The room fell silent, but for a second, "You don't pray, Jaime."

"Oh, so it's Jaime now is it? Not Kingslayer? Not _ser?_"

Her eyes dropped, "I've been calling you Jaime. Jaime."

There was something warm spreading through his stomach. He didn't understand it; he hadn't drank anything in hours. His eyes searched hers and he felt himself grow in his pants. Then came the shame, but that didn't dull the throbbing. Jaime adjusted his stump over his breeches; he couldn't bear for her to see it, not now. She was in no state of mind to think about his desires, his needs. He hadn't had anyone since he took his Cersei in the Great Sept of Baelor… That felt like a lifetime ago. And right now, for some reason, looking into Brienne's eyes—they were nice eyes, for her, for anyone—he wanted her.

And part of her, however slim, wanted him, too. Or was he just projecting his own wishes onto her? _No, _Jaime growled in his mind. _I am a lion. Lions mate with lions. I belong with Cersei. I belong to her. _An ache filled his chest, remembering Tyrion's warning. _But she does not belong to me anymore. _Tyrion had given him the truth of it. His dwarf of a brother might have been many things. A monster, a murderer, a half-man… but he wasn't a liar. No, Cersei was one to lie—with every man in King's Landing.

Brienne, on the other hand, had never been with another man in her entire life. She'd never so much as felt a man's lips press against her own. Jaime could be her first. Like he'd been Cersei's first. _No. _He stopped the train-of-thought again. What he had with Cersei was gone. There was no point trying to salvage it or look for a replacement for it.

"I _am _sorry," she said. "About your s—Joffrey. And your father, Lord Tywin. I swear to you by the Seven: after we've found Sansa Stark, I will help you bring whoever you please to justice."

Jaime smiled softly, "Brienne, the thing is… I'm beginning to think this _is _justice." He raised his stump, looking at it sullenly, his eyes drifting back to Brienne's own.

Her eyes weren't on his, however. They were on where his stump had been, his, lap, his breeches. The bulge was still there, forgotten in self-pity. His good hand hurried to hide his throbbing member, "My apologies. Nature, you know."

Brienne's eyes never left his lap, and Jaime felt his face growing hot, "No need for apologies. I've seen you. In the tub at Harrenhal, remember?"

Jaime squinted, "I was with fever."

She moved closer, her eyes back at his face, which was undoubtedly pink as her cunt. "Looks like you could be with fever again," she muttered, the backside of her hand pressing gently against his wet forehead. "Are you sure you're alright?"

He was on the verge of snapping, part desire, part irritation, "It's not a fever, wench—Brienne."

Her hand was still there, against his head, "Then what's wrong?"

He lost it. Jaime grabbed the wrist of her hand against his head and twisted methodically so that she came to her knees in front of him, grunting, "Do you really want to know?"

They were practically eye level. Hers were unblinking, holding his unapologetically, not attempting to break free from his grip. "Yes," she whispered in her tone that almost sounded as embittered as his own.

_You were fretting with the wrong head of mine, _Jaime thought, but he settled for releasing her hand and growling, "No, you don't." Sullenly, he stood and marched from the small inn room, leaving Brienne of Tarth alone.

He needed some fresh air. More importantly though, he needed the thoughts of fucking the wench out of his cluttered mind.


	9. The Mockingbird's Song I

The Mockingbird's Song: Chapter One

_The flowers are starting to bloom, _she noticed, walking through the gardens with her darling sister on her heels. The air smelled of honeysuckle, grass, and the fresh water of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork.

"Where are we going, Cat?" little Lysa called, almost running to keep up with her elder sister's long strides. Catelyn Tully had barely seen her twelfth nameday, but she was tall. At times, she was grateful for the trait. It made her look and feel older. She often felt the lingering glances of older men—knights and squires alike. They made her blush, but they were only glances. No good nor evil could come out of them.

Her height also embarrassed her, however. Ever since she'd hit her growth spurt, everything seemed to be changing—anatomically, at least. Her bosom was swelling, she'd had her first flowering, and she often felt contemptuous about, well, everything. Especially Lord Hoster's notion of betrothal. He seemed hell-bent on marrying Cat off to some lord or lord's son now that she was a maiden true.

The idea held no joy for her. She was only twelve, a maiden but still young. She wanted to experience life first. It was something no one seemed to understand, save her best friend Petyr.

Petyr Baelish was a fosterling of Lord Hoster Tully's; he was the son of some small lord from the Fingers and one of Cat's truest friends. He was a young lad, but comely and smart for his age. More importantly, he was _fun. _That was where they were running off to now—to meet Petyr—but Catelyn merely turned back to her sister, still walking, and whispered, "Hurry up!"

The shore by the river was more grass than sand, but Petyr was sitting in one of the few substantial mounds, letting the small grains run through his fingers. His face lit up at the sight of her, "Catelyn!"

"Hey, Petyr," Cat smiled. "Nice day for a swim!" His grin turned mischievous. Her stomach fluttered. _Oh, you're being silly, _she scolded herself. _It's just a smile, and he's just a boy._

"Hi, Petyr!" Lysa called out, too loud for the proximity. If Petyr was smart for his age, Lysa was incredibly slow for her own. She was nine, but small enough to pass for six, at least. Cat thought she saw Petyr's mouth droop at the sound of her sister's voice, but she might have been projecting her own expectations.

"Lysa," Petyr greeted. His voice sounded sharp, sharper than it had when he had greeted Catelyn. More formal, less cordial. Maybe another projection of her own feelings…

"Why are we way out here?" Lysa asked, stupidly. "Why aren't we over by the docks near the castle?"

"So we can go for a swim, Lysa," Catelyn answered, perhaps more harshly than she intended.

"But we don't have any swimming clothes."

Petyr answered Lysa this time, smiling again, "Precisely." Catelyn's stomach fluttered again, but this time the feeling lingered.

The water was cool, but her face still felt flushed. She'd never seen a boy naked before. It gave her all sorts of stirrings inside, most of them conflicted. When he'd dropped his breeches, at first she'd been tempted to turn and scamper back to the castle and her room, but her courage had won out. Petyr had waded out in the water already when she called for him to turn around and close his eyes.

"Both?" he asked, befuddled but grinning that smile of his. His green eyes were boring through her clothes, she thought. What would it have mattered if he saw her take them off? He'd have the opportunity in the water anyways.

"Both," Cat declared firmly.

Petyr complied, still smiling, "As you wish, Cat. Just seems a bit redundant is all." He turned around, showing his backside, bobbing up and down in the small waves of this little cove in the Tumblestone. She shuddered, and she liked it.

Lysa giggled, "We're going to get in trouble, Caty!"

Cat bit her lip, "Don't be ridiculous. No one will ever find out." She was reassuring herself as much as Lysa, then unlacing her dress and stepping out of her smallclothes. Her breath caught for a moment as she pulled her smallclothes down past her ankles. She had never been this wet between her legs in her entire life. For a moment she feared her moon's blood was on her, but she knew this wasn't the case. She bit her lip harder, taking her first step into the water. A slight chill ran down her spine. "Come on, Lysa."

Lysa jumped into the shallow water beside her, splashing water up on Cat's chest and back. It felt soothing in the hot spring air. "This is fun!" Lysa admitted.

_And wicked, _Cat thought. But not a single part of her wanted to turn back.

"Hurry up," Petyr muttered jovially, his back still turned to the girls out of politeness. _At least he can feign like he's chivalrous, _Cat thought, knowing the boy was just as wicked as she. This little venture had been his idea as much as hers. She couldn't quite remember who had suggested it or why they'd agreed to it. Her head was buzzing, and she couldn't think too straight, but not a part of her minded. _Not a part. _Even in the cool confines of the river, she could feel the warmth between her thighs growing stronger. The thing that scared her was the internal recognition of what it truly was: _desire_.

Cat and Lysa waded out to where the water came up past their collarbones and stopped, letting their bodies bob in the subtle ripples of the water. "Petyr," Cat whispered.

He whipped around, and for the first time, the smile was in his grey-green eyes rather than on his anxious lips. Lips that Cat was suddenly unable to keep her eyes away from for more than a few seconds. It took all her self-control to not tempt a look beneath the surface of the water. The intrigue of what she would find well outweighed the fear, the reservation.

Petyr was just a boy, just her friend. He posed no danger to her current lifestyle. He wasn't anyone Hoster Tully would even consider betrothing her to. House Baelish was far too low down the social spectrum to join with House Tully through marriage. Besides, House Baelish was already sworn to House Tully. It wouldn't have been a plausible political move for her father, and Lord Hoster never made moves that weren't beneficial to the Tully name in some way or another. Maybe that was why the urge to kiss him had come over her so strongly, made her sweet opening more wet than the river in which it hid.

Lysa giggled suddenly. Cat looked at her sister, confused, and found her eyes fixed on the surface of the water. No, beneath the surface. And she was looking at Petyr. "Lysa!" Cat reprimanded. "Mind your eyes!"

Cat's eyes met Petyr's. His cheeks were turning the shade they'd turned last time they'd been in the sun for four hours.

Lysa's giggling continued, "What's that, Petyr?" Her hand tried to dart out, but Cat wrapped her fingers tight around her sister's wrist.

Catelyn was mortified. This has been a mistake. "Stop it, Lysa. You know perfectly well what it is. Do I need to send you back to the castle?"

Lysa ignored her, her eyes still on Petyr's nether regions, "It looks hard." She giggled again. "It looks like a little finger." The giggling grew into raucous laughter. "Maybe I should call you Littlefinger! Littlefinger."

Petyr gritted his teeth, "I'd prefer if you didn't. M'lady."

Catelyn shook her head, "She's just being a child, Petyr. Ignore—" Her breath caught as her eyes followed Lysa's line-of-sight under the surface of the water. Petyr's member was clearly visible. For the first time, Cat realized the water was so lucid that it didn't hide her breasts at all. Or her stomach. Or anything beneath it. And it certainly didn't hide Petyr's cock. _Well, Lysa was half right_, Catelyn thought. It _did _look hard. But it didn't look like a little finger. It didn't look _little_ at all.

Her eyes darted back above the surface, to the horizon, to the sky, to anywhere but below the water. She was feeling incredibly warm. In her face, between her thighs. Her eyes involuntarily flitted below the surface again, and this time when she forced them back up they rested on Petyr's own grey-green eyes. They looked like they contained every little emotion she felt inside. She looked away, even warmer than before. It was just a glance, she reminded herself. Just a glance—no good nor evil could come from it.

And then, she was afraid. Because she liked it. Catelyn gulped. _Petyr._


End file.
